


Fiction That Has Blinded Us

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Pining, Queer Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Rimming, Scent Kink, Smut Swap 2018, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 21:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14317527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Jamie might have the C, but he sure ain't a Capital-A Alpha. Tyler hardly seems to notice, though.





	Fiction That Has Blinded Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkrosaleen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrosaleen/gifts).



> This spark of an idea has been knocking around my mind for some time now. I hope it's bro-ey enough, dear recipient. Title from OBB because I enjoy employing the obvious.
> 
> Note: There is one reference to an offhand slur right at the start of the story.

It starts with a tipsy Jordie's offhand comment about dynamics being utter bullshit in hockey.

It's a sentiment Jamie agrees with, whether sober or otherwise, which is why he doesn't see it coming when the conversation at the table turns to dynamics _off the ice_ , in a vague sort of way. Which quickly turns to people's dating and/or banging preferences. It's at around the point when Daddy good-naturedly calls Segs "the prettiest knotslut" that Jamie's higher brain functions check out. He's pretty sure Segs called _himself_ a knotslut first, though. And also pretty.

That was the night before the first game of the pre-season.

The thing is.

The thing _is_.

Well. The thing is, Jamie has been aware of Tyler's preferences before the words were all out into the open.

Jamie has known innately, subconsciously, whatever, from the very beginning. It's obvious. Has been obvious since the airport, Jamie helping Tyler with his carry-on, Tyler eyeing Jordie's hands and neck. Jamie knew the score.

Jamie knows the score just as well, maybe better now, sitting across from Tyler in the locker room. Practice has been a brutal clusterfuck for a week and a half now, they're in a weird, fickle rut in both wins and points, and Jamie wishes he could let out some steam the old-fashioned way while the season's still young. He bets plenty of guys would be thinking the same, but they have a game tonight, so it's no-go. Whether win or lose, it's a Tuesday, with a game against Tampa Bay on Thursday, for which they'll most likely fly out tomorrow afternoon.

He must really be feeling the non-literal rut if he's even considering going out and attempting to pick up on a Tuesday mid-season. For any of the guys the summer should have been the time for all that, but considering how he spent his off-season is way too close to stuff Jamie doesn't want to think about right now. He's professionally a non-thinker when he has to, when it helps getting his mind in the game.

Later, though, Spezz has a hatty, and not even McDavid can prevent the Stars from getting the win. He's back to sitting across from Segs, this time changing out of his gear, when the thought hits him once more that he knows the score. Across the bench, Tyler is staring at him with fiercely alert eyes. Victory eyes. James feels caught. He looks away.

He doesn't need to see Segs smile to feel that he must be glowing. Jamie probably is, too. But winning looks extra-good on Tyler. The good wins are the ones that make it worth it, he reminds himself, the ones that make the team feel like they count. They make Jamie feel as if he deserves a little of the things he wants.

"I was really feeling it. Were you really feeling it? Man, that was _tight_ ," Tyler says before he gets up to use the showers. Jamie nods along, and hell yeah he's feeling it.

Maybe he _could_ go out. A beer wouldn't hurt, even if he does strike out. After getting out of the showers, he asks around, tries to get some guys together. Spezz is crashing as he stands after the adrenaline's finally run out, Jordie seems beat, along with about half of the guys, and the other half have spouses to get home to. Tyler's the only one who's in, it seems.

Jamie shrugs. "Might as well come over," he decides on the spot. Segs seems fine with the arrangement. Jamie thinks he was probably going to strike out anyway. Might as well stay in.

The thing is, he's statistically more likely _not_ to strike out. His dynamic should be giving him an edge or whatever. Instead, it's more like he's floundering just to get his words out, his interest across. He feels stranded as a beta in rooms he can't scent, among people he can't tie and on whom he can't leave his marks. No one would even think to ask him to anyway. He tries not to want to too much, for his own sanity.

"Ready, buddy?" Casual. A smile that's all knowingly tolerant.

"Sure thing." His after-game interviews are blissfully short this time, focused more on Spezz.

They stop to pick up two six-packs and for Tyler to briefly let out the dogs. Jamie watches them scurry around the neighbourhood, goes inside for a glass of water, uses Tyler's bathroom, wonders why they don't just stay at Tyler's anyway.

"They're set for the night. Sorry it took so long," and then he's leading the way to Jamie's house, just a couple of blocks down the road. Jamie follows with the six-packs. The walk is pleasant. Dallas mid-autumn is mild.

Because Jamie knows the score, as previously mentioned, he walks into his own house without a shred of doubt it'll turn into video games and weak ribbing. He anticipates they'll barely finish the first six-pack before Tyler heads out or passes out against Jamie's couch. It's likely they both'll pass out if the exhaustion Jamie starts feeling is any indication. It sounds not entirely exciting in his own head, so he decides not to mention it to Tyler. Instead, he serves then the sandwiches he had delivered earlier and they start eating while settling down in front of the console.

Less than an hour later he wishes he had mentioned it. Maybe then he could have had a clue as to why Tyler's post-game sweats are around his ankles in the middle of Jamie's living room. Or why Jamie's own sweats have had a similar fate. By that point Jamie's too distracted by Tyler's everything to pay much attention to the details.

*

The thing is, they're been here before. Not in the sense of this exact scenario. Rather, he and Tyler have seen more of each other over the summer than Jamie might have let on to people such as Jordie. They had partied together some, with and without their friends, which had led to sweaty clubs and way too many people. Not Jamie's scene, but very much Tyler's.

And Jamie doesn't want to ever think of Tyler in terms of what's between his legs. Jamie knows the score, and he chooses not to be a douchecanoe about it, thank you very much. There are some truths he acknowledges, such as Tyler being an omega who's exclusively into alphas. Jamie can't scent anyone, can't pick up on the subtleties of alphas and omegas however much he tries. The clubs they end up in are intense for Jamie, and they must be a thousand times more so for Tyler, because Tyler can actually pick up on interest from across a room. Jamie's will always stay hidden, his body will never produce the pheromones necessary to give any solid indication of where he stands on that, and Tyler will stay equally hidden to him.

That's fine in a way the world at large is fine when you can't change it.

They party and Tyler goes home with alphas Jamie barely glimpses. They dance, sometimes with each other, and Jamie feels Tyler's body moving against his, pushed against his own by the mass of bodies. Jamie knows how to keep himself in check.

If one night they end up pushing against each other for longer than coincidence permits, if they somehow end up with Jamie pushing Tyler against a bare wall and Tyler latching his arms around Jamie's body, then it's a fluke Jamie tries not to think about in the harsh light of day. Sometimes he gets more than he deserves of the things he wants so badly they're now almost bitter on the back of his tongue, but he knows the score. He doesn't mention it. He never mentioned it the whole time they spent together the following day, tried not to think too much about Tyler's face nudged into the skin underneath his jaw, inhaling for a scent that would surely disappoint. If anything of the sort happens, happened just a few short months ago, _neither_ mentions it. Jamie likes to hit his cues where Tyler is concerned.

*

The progression of facts, when Jamie thinks about it, is jarring.

They play Mario Kart in a sort of mildly-interested daze while they each crack open a beer. By the end, neither has had more than half a beer each, which is baffling in and of itself. Jamie is maybe looking for excuses where there aren't any to be found easily.

"I can't tell if you're cheating or just really bad at this," is the best Tyler can come up with as ribbing, it seems. He's sunk low in his seat next to Jamie on the couch, barely hitting the buttons on his controller.

"Shut up," is not Jamie's best comeback. He tries to hit Tyler with a couch cushion without moving more than strictly necessary. His earlier thought of probably passing out is becoming more and more likely. He tries several times to nudge into Tyler, leaves him be for a bit, then tries again. It's vaguely more entertaining than the game at this point.

Somehow they struggle to dislodge the other and continue playing, but it ends up as awkward tussling by the end. He doesn't mean to push Tyler off the couch, but they somehow end up on the floor next to it. One of them pauses the game before they land, which Jamie notices only in a distracted sort of way. He's leaning over Tyler in a way that is occupying most of his attention. He hurries to stand up and lends Tyler a hand in the most awkward way possible. Tyler's eyes narrow for an instant before latching onto Jamie's hand. They end up standing in Jamie's living room, staring at each other, and Jamie hastily lets go of Tyler's hand. Maybe the excuse here is that they needed something to break the tension.

All Jamie knows is that they end up leaning into each other and it turns into them kissing with two open beers on Jamie's coffee table and the game all but abandoned.

That's oversimplifying it, maybe. Jamie has trouble telling distance and movement here, which is stupid given he's a professional hockey player. He genuinely cannot recall who leaned in first, but he has the clearest image of a speckle in Tyler's left eye, of Tyler's lips parting, a tongue wetting them, Tyler's own eyes tracing the distance between Jamie's eyes and lips, from one to the other several times until Jamie felt himself getting dizzy trying to keep up with the trajectory of Tyler's stare. Their mouths brushing against each other is purely the culmination of all these tiny little impressions.

Afterwards is a frenzy of kissing and lips and Jamie opening his mouth to Tyler's taste. He may have hyperventilated there for a while, trying to inhale as much of Tyler's scent as possible, that arena soap and clean sweat scent he always carried after a game. That's the scent Jamie looks for. He's never disappointed.

From there they move to the couch proper. Again Jamie feels as if he lost time somewhere between making out wetly and getting Tyler's sweats off his hips. He recalls gripping said hips tightly once, twice, leaving impressions of his fingers in the skin, white then red. Tyler moaning from it. It's the little things that startle Jamie.

Tyler moans now as Jamie's thumb sinks right into his slick and makes himself at home there. Jamie should maybe find it odd because it's so different from anything he's done before, anyone's body he's touched before, but it feels natural like hockey is natural. Tyler is leaning over the couch's backrest, panting incessantly. It's a tight clutch, hot and yielding when Jamie thrust his thumb in and out, moves the slick around. Tyler is wetter than he could have ever expected. Jamie has too much saliva in his mouth, feels as if he's going to choke on it real soon, decides he'd better fix that. He drops to his knees right there in the space between his couch and his coffee table. Granted, eating out Tyler Seguin is not his worst life choice. He doesn't think. He's not thinking, that much is clear.

He grips Tyler's hips convulsively, grabs his cheeks, parts them enough to get a good view, parts them even more to push his face against Tyler's hole. He decides his best course of action is just to go for it. He worries his tongue against the rim, and Tyler lets out a shriek that turns into his filthiest moan yet. That goes on for about a minute, before Jamie finally seals his mouth around the rim and sucks. Tyler tenses as if he's gripping the couch back even more firmly. Then Jamie feels a hand, Tyler's right, reaching towards Jamie's head, gripping his hair clumsily. Jamie's not sure if he's reading Tyler's intention right, but he gets a firmer grip on Tyler at the hips and moves him into Jamie's face. He repeats the movement twice, three times, before Tyler finally gets it and starts fucking Jamie's face.

That's about the time Tyler starts keening.

It goes on for far longer than Jamie would think possible. But he's enjoying every second of it. He wants to make Tyler feel good. He alternates sucking on Tyler's hole proper and licking the rim, almost a tease that makes Tyler shift around and his panting to become even louder. That lasts enough to feel the slick on his tongue and the back of his throat. It lasts enough to have the taste tattooed to the inside of his mouth. His face is burning with it where it's smeared around his mouth and chin.

He licks at Tyler until they both can't stand it anymore. He unceremoniously gets up, his sweats discarded at about the same time as Tyler's, and, largely at Tyler's urging, his hand still trying to keep a grasp on Jamie's head, grabs his own dick and tries not to come all over Tyler's messy hole before he's even in. Tyler gives him a dazed, glass-eyed look over his right shoulder. Jamie isn't sure handling his junk at this junction is very wise. The threat of coming before he's even inside Tyler is more than real. He presses his thumb inside once more, just to check, and the unholy noise Tyler lets out is... startling. He hopes his aim is true and the embarrassment of failing now doesn't come. He pushes in with more confidence than he feels. Tyler's using both hands to grip the couch now and he looks braced for it.

"I don't. I don't. _Fuck_." It sounds as if it's... good? Maybe? Jamie stops to check after the first thrust, Tyler's hole clinging hotly at his dick, but he barely opens his mouth to ask before Tyler's right hand reaches back to slap onto the back of his thigh, right underneath his ass, just grabs on and pants like he's dying or running a race or about to throw up a kidney. Jamie counts that as definite encouragement.

His foothold isn't the best, and the limited space he's occupying isn't the best to maneuver in all things being equal, so it makes sense to grab onto Tyler's right shoulder for purchase. He holds on, straightens Tyler's back in an arch with the movement, and it must hit Tyler where it counts because he lets out a thready wail turned whine at the end. Jamie squares his shoulders and goes harder. The wail is back, and it's unabashedly continuous. That almost, but not quite, covers the slap-slap-slap sound of their bodies colliding. Tyler's hand clenches on the back of Jamie's thigh and the hand he still uses to grip the couch slips for a moment before he straightens. Jamie tightens his grip on Tyler's shoulder out of reflex and sets a pounding rhythm.

Tyler contracts around him so suddenly it's like a gutpunch. Before he knows what's happening, Jamie is coming inside, feels thick globs of it around his dick being pushed around as he thrusts two, three more times, that same pounding movement. Tyler is coming down from his own orgasm, come staining the back of Jamie's couch. He can see it out of the corner of his eye, even as his vision turns blurry out of self-defense.

After about two minutes of this Jamie barely feels human. The afterglow is as brutal as the fucking, Tyler's skin soft and sweaty where Jamie's still gripping it. He should stop gripping it, maybe. They've collapsed over the back of the couch, Jamie surely smothering him with his body. Moving seems like a reach for another ten minutes at the least, but Jamie makes an effort out of not wanting to be a jackass. He straightens as best he can, but he's still hard inside Tyler and doesn't think the pullout would feel that great right now. He can see some of his come around the rim as it is. It's gonna be a mess. Jamie shivers at the thought. He thinks maybe Tyler shivers with him.

Tyler raises his head with a few bobs as Jamie deliberates how best to detach himself from Tyler's body, tries to regain his grip on the couch now that he's no longer gripping at Jamie. He tosses a look over his shoulder, this time a big smile hijacking his expression. Jamie knows that smile. "Knew you wouldn't let me down, buddy," he smiles at Jamie, eyes fixed on Jamie's own.

Jamie can't help smiling right back.

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in a nebulous 2015-2016 season and references a pre-season of hand-waviness. Just fyi.


End file.
